William Sedley

“It is a delightful morning!” said a gentleman to a boy of about twelve years old, as he walked up and down an avenue with high trees on each side, which led to a handsome house. A coach drove, at that moment, out of the court-yard. “What a fine day!” repeated the gentleman. “I think, William, the roads will be extremely pleasant.” William made no answer. The tears trickled down his cheeks, which he wiped away with the back of his hand.

A little chimney-sweeper had crept along till he came to the place; and tossing down his bag of soot at the foot of a tree, stood gazing at the cloaths of the young gentleman, and secretly wished he was but as happy. He beckoned to his companion, who sat at a little distance gnawing a stale crust, which he had received from the good-nature of a neighbouring farmer; and as he came forward, “Look, Jack,” said he, “what a fine coach that is, with those long tail nags: that boy is going to ride, I warrant; and yet he looks as sad as if he was one of us. I wonder what such fine folks can have to make them uneasy. If I was that boy, and had my belly-full, as he has, and such good cloaths to my back, and might ride in that same coach, I should be as happy as a king. O how I wish I was that boy!”

William turned round at this speech, and smiling at the chimney-sweeper, asked him his name? The poor fellow, with a scrape of his foot, which he meant as a bow of respect, told him, that his name was Tony Climbwell; and that he lived at the next village. “Well then, Tony,” replied William, “I would advise you not to envy every one you see; for I would willingly change places with you to enjoy your liberty. I am going back to school, Tony, after a month’s holidays; and if you knew how unhappy I am when there, you would pity my situation; and not envy the joys of it.”

The gentleman before-mentioned, had gone into the house to enquire for his lady, who was to complete the party, and convey his son to school. It was in this interval, that the following conversation passed between the two boys and the young gentleman.

“Indeed, master,” replied Tony, “if we could change places, you would find you had made but a sorry choice. Our liberty, as you call it, is not to do as we like. To be sure, I am a very poor boy, and have had no learning; for I can neither read nor spell; but if I take it right, liberty means something such as to be your own master, don’t it? at least, I know when Simon Pennyless was sent to goal, people said, “That the next week he would be set at liberty;” and that was, that he was to be let out again. Now we go about every morning sweeping chimnies”——“And walk,” said William, interrupting him, “where you please all the rest of the day. At our school we have scarce any time for play, and are confined from six till eight, from nine till twelve, and from two till five o’clock, without any amusement whatever. Don’t tell me, therefore, Tony, that our life is not much more uncomfortable than your’s. Besides which, we have long tasks to learn after school-hours are over; and are thrashed, and scolded, if we cannot say them perfect; and then to think it will be six months before I see my father and mother!”——William wept again; the thought was too pathetic for his feelings; and he drew his fore-finger across his left eye, and then stroaked it the contrary way, to wipe off the drops which stood trembling in his right.—“But I have no father or mother,” replied Tony, “nor a single soul in the world to care what becomes of me, except my mistress, who is the best woman that ever lived; and would give me some victuals if she could; but she dares not for her own sake; for her husband is so cruel, that he would beat her if she did. He makes us work hard; and starves us into the bargain. This poor fellow,” added he, pointing to his companion, “whom we call Little Shock, from his curling locks, is but six years old; and has been bound apprentice this twelvemonth; and I was no older myself when I first went to my master, which is near seven years ago; and I love the boy dearly, that I do, as much as if he was my own brother; and frequently do I get the broom thrown at my head, because I do not beat him when he cries at going up a narrow chimney, or does not sweep it as he should do.” “But is not your master obliged to give you food enough?” said William. “Why don’t you complain to somebody? I would, if I was in your place.” “Ah! Sir,” replied the sooty-faced boy, “you talk like a gentleman, and know nothing of the matter. Whom would you have us complain to? And do not you think our master would use us much worse if we did? You wished just now to change places with us; but if you did, you would soon alter your mind.”

As he pronounced these last words, the carriage which had been waiting, drove to a little distance, to make way for another coach, which then arrived. It contained a very venerable looking old gentleman, whom William called his grandfather, and immediately left the chimney-sweepers to welcome; and with great expressions of joy, accompanied him into the house. They were met in the hall by the gentleman and lady before-mentioned, whom I shall call by the name of Sedley. After the usual compliments were over, and they had informed their father, Mr. Graves, of their intention to take William to school, he begged a reprieve for him for a few days, as he much wished to enjoy the pleasure of his company. A compliance with this request dissipated the sadness of William’s countenance; and he jumped about with a degree of vivacity that seemed to afford pleasure to all his friends.

Mr. Graves was one of those old men, whose features are always impressed with such marks of good-nature as are pleasing to the volatile spirits of youth. Though he was turned of eighty, he would sometimes partake in the diversions of his grandson; and while his instructions commanded respect, his mildness and affability excited the warmest affection. When he had taken his afternoon’s nap in an easy chair, which was placed in one corner of the room for that purpose, he got up, and after shaking his cloaths, stroaking down his ruffles, and adjusting his wig, asked William if he was disposed for a walk.

They sallied out together, the invitation being willingly accepted. The good man taking his stick in one hand, and resting the other on the shoulder of his young companion, enquired whether he had had any conversation with the black boys, with whom, at his arrival, he had found him engaged. William repeated the substance of what had passed; and concluded with saying, “He believed he was happier than honest Tony, though it must almost counterbalance all his sufferings to be exempted from the constant uneasiness of learning a task.” “I am sorry,” replied Mr. Graves, “that you have formed such a wrong estimate of your situation in life; and I should have expected, that the striking incident of this morning, would have taught you to be contented and thankful with the real happiness of your lot. Though I am a very old man, William, I have not forgotten what were my own troubles at your time of life. Study I often found to be irksome, and confinement the heaviest of all evils; and therefore, I shall not preach to you, that you will never in future be so happy as you now are; because, if you feel yourself to be otherwise, you will pay little attention to such an assurance: but thus much I will say, and hope you will credit my experience, that all the uneasiness you complain of, may be mitigated, if not entirely overcome, by your own diligence and resolution. It is by idleness and neglect, that your difficulties are encreased. The more disagreeable you find your studies, the more you are disposed to postpone the necessary attention which they require. But this, my dear boy, is a very wrong method. The beginning of every attempt will always be irksome; but those who are too indolent to bestow a continued degree of care and assiduity, will never arrive at perfection. My William cannot be destitute of emulation; if he sees others excel, he must wish to equal their attainments. It is the meanest of human minds, that will envy another’s merit; but the noblest disposition will endeavour to improve by a good example. Every state has its troubles. When you leave school, the same cares will not perplex you, but others equally severe may arise, which now you are unacquainted with. Have you not oftentimes been taught, that every period of life has its particular duties; and the duty of your age and station is to attend to the instructions of your masters, and to learn what they desire you, when they require it with cheerfulness?” “Then surely, Sir,” replied William, “Tony is in a happier state than I am, since he has no tasks to get by heart; and his duty of sweeping a chimney is easily performed. I should like to sweep a chimney of all things.” “Perhaps you might,” returned his grandfather. “Any thing will give us pleasure when we do it for amusement; but should you like to have the broom thrown at your head when you had done? or should you enjoy going without your meals, and strolling about in all weathers to beg from strangers the miserable supply to your hunger? It is very wrong to wish for a change of situation with any one, since none can be acquainted with the secret uneasiness of his neighbour’s mind. Tony had some reason indeed to wish for your station in life; but even he would have been deceived; for had he made the exchange, and been possessed of your inclinations with your fortune, he would still have found himself disappointed; since you esteemed yourself at that moment as the most unhappy being, in the necessity of returning to school, and was prevented by the error of your desires from any enjoyment of your superior advantages. This is a useful lesson, my child, to teach you contentment; for, believe me, though trials and temptations of the poor, are in most cases stronger than you can any ways imagine, if you are inclined, by a love of play, to leave your studies, and desert your duty, reflect how often they may be tempted to steal from others those necessary comforts of which they stand in need; and how much they are exposed to the danger of becoming wicked from the example of others and their own ignorance! I should like to see your new chimney-sweeper acquaintance,” continued Mr. Graves, “and though I do not approve of your mixing with such companions, I think you should not have left him without relieving his wants: perhaps he might have been very hungry, and has not had a good dinner since, as you have, to satisfy his appetite.”

William was backward and somewhat stupid at his learning, but he wanted not sense; and his tenderness and good-nature were uncommon.

“Poor fellow,” said he, “your arrival, and the joy of seeing you, made me forget him; but I will find out where he lives, and do all I can to make amends for my forgetfulness.—Dear Sir, will you go with me? it is not a long way; we are now in sight of the village.” “Though the distance is not very great,” replied Mr. Graves, “yet the winding path, which leads to it, is farther than I can reach without fatigue. I will therefore rest myself upon the stump of this tree, and shall be entertained in your absence with the prospect of the country: the view of which, from this eminence, is delightful.”

William set off, with a degree of swiftness that promised a speedy return; but he had not proceeded far, when he was met by a Jew, who sold trinkets of various sorts; as buttons, watch-chains, pencils, and such like things. He offered his wares to William, who at first refused to purchase them; but the man telling him he might as well look at, if he did not buy them; he was tempted to ask the price of an ivory bilberkit, for which he paid a shilling. A small looking-glass, was a thing he had long wished for; and as that was the same expence, he debated for a considerable time before he could determine which of the two to make choice of. One moment he began, to play with the toy, and the next surveyed himself in the glass. Alternatively taking them up and laying them down, till the owner, who saw his eagerness for both, persuaded him to have them.

He was walking slowly on, with his purchase in his hand, when a butcher’s boy, and a lad who was driving some cows from the field to be milked, overtook him with a nest of blackbirds, in which were four young ones. William asked what they would take for their prize? which they at first refused to sell; but afterwards said, he should have it for a shilling. He objected that it was too much; and taking out his money, found that he had only half a guinea, which had been given him to take to school, and which, therefore, he did not chuse to change, and nine-pence half-penny, for which the boys agreed at last he should have the blackbirds.

Once more then he proceeded in his journey to look for Tony. He soon found the house, and his black acquaintance with a young child, whom he was teaching to walk. They renewed their intimacy, and William told him the design of his visit; but coloured with confusion when he recollected the situation of his money, which he had never thought of when he was making his bargains. He did not at all like to own the true state of the case, nor did he know what method to pursue. He wished to keep his gold for many reasons, and he had beside, neither silver nor copper. His conscience urged him to give Tony something; but he had pleased himself greatly with the thought of having a half-guinea in his pocket, which he could call his own. His sensibility represented the wants of the orphan boy but the pride of having a piece of gold in his possession, overcame every consideration of pity. “If you will call to-morrow at our house, Tony,” said he, “you shall have some bread and meat.—Good bye, I cannot stay any longer!” And away he went, with the uneasy consciousness of having behaved wrong.

He was on his return to his grandfather, when Jeffery Squander and his sister, who were taking a walk, met him as he was crossing by the end of a lane. They had stopped to buy some plum-cakes of a man with one leg, who made it his business to carry them about. Jeffery and William were neighbours and school-fellows, and immediately saluted each other; the former inciting the other to follow his example. He refused at first, because he had no money; but was very unwilling to make known his real reason. Upon being pressed still farther, he said, “he had nothing but gold about him, which he supposed Jonathan, the cake man, could not give him change for, otherwise he should be glad to eat some.” Jonathan felt in a leathern bag, which was fastened before him, and divided in the middle to hold silver and halfpence, and said, “he had money enough for the purpose.” William was sadly disappointed; but as he could urge no farther objection, gave up his dear half-guinea with regret, and eat three plum-cakes with a worse appetite than usual.

Mr. Graves, in the mean time, had walked onward in quest of his grandson, whose stay began to give him some uneasiness. He came up with him just as he was finishing his last mouthful, and gently blamed him for the length of his absence, at the same time inviting his companions to join him, and to return to Mr. Sedley’s. They politely declined his offer, as they were engaged to spend the evening with an uncle.

As soon as they had taken leave, Mr. Graves enquired after the success of William’s visit. “You made me quite uneasy,” said he, “I hope you have done a great deal of good. How much did you give honest Tony? or had you as much money as you wanted? I forgot to make that enquiry, you set off in such a hurry.”—William blushed, hung down his head, slackened his pace, and slunk behind his grandfather in silent confusion.—Mr. Graves turned round, and taking his hand, “What has happened, my boy,” said he, “to cover that open countenance with the suspicious appearance of guilt? Or do I injure you, my noble child, and is it only the blush of your modesty at the enquiry of your generosity?” “Indeed, Sir,” said William, “I feel the keenness of your reproof. But if my honesty in confessing can excuse my fault, you shall be acquainted with the whole truth. I went from you with a full design to relieve poor Tony; but I soon overtook a Jew pedlar, and I was so weak as to spend my money in the purchase of this glass, and that bilberkit. Nine-pence I had still left; and nine-pence would have been something for the chimney-sweeper; but this bird’s nest which I have in my handkerchief, I am ashamed of myself, Sir, but I gave that to the boys for the birds.” “And was that all your money?” said Mr. Graves. “Did you not pay for the cakes you were eating?” “Yes, Sir,” replied William. “Then why had you nothing for the boy?” again enquired his grandfather. “Because,” returned William, blushing still more, “I did not like to change half a guinea: nor should I have done it, had not Squander seemed to think it mean of me, and I was afraid he would laugh at my stinginess when we return to school: for he has always so much money, that he does not care how much he spends.” “The frankness of your acknowledgment,” replied Mr. Graves, “must entirely shield you from reproof; and you seem to be so sensible of your error, that I need not, perhaps, point it out with any further aggravations. I would not tire you with my advice, and yet I feel such an interest in your happiness, as makes me wish to observe the improvement which may arise from any incident that occurs. Young people are apt to pass over every action without reflection; and when a day is once concluded, they think no more of their behaviour during the course of it. Our lives, my dear William, are made up of trifling accidents; but if we incur guilt by behaving improperly, the future misery of an uneasy conscience will be ill repaid by the enjoyment of any present pleasure. You should always, therefore, be upon your guard; since you see an occasion to draw you into error, may arise where you least expect it. To purchase the toys, or to buy the birds as the naughty boys had taken the nest was not wrong; though if you know where they got it, I should hope you would replace it. But when you had only that two shillings and nine-pence, I think, some part of it ought to have been saved for the purpose on which you set out. But then, William, a worse part of your conduct is still to come. You were convinced that it was right, that it was your duty, to do something for Tony; yet you left him without relief: while the fear of being laughed at by so silly a fellow as Jeffery Squander, had more effect upon you than your pity for your fellow creature, a boy of your own age in want. This weakness, I am much afraid, will often lead you into danger. Wicked people will laugh at you for being better than themselves; but will by no means like to share in the miseries which your follies may incur.”

As he concluded these words, they arrived within sight of Mr. Sedley’s house, and were soon discovered by two children who were kneeling in the parlour window; but immediately upon seeing Mr. Graves, they jumped down, and came running to meet him. The eldest was a girl about a year older than William; and the other, little Bob, had the day before left off his petticoats, and honoured his birth-day with a suit of new boy’s cloaths.

Miss Sedley and her little brother had both been to dine with a neighbouring gentleman, in consequence of their parents intention of conveying their son to school; which the reader has already heard Mr. Graves’s arrival had postponed. They both expressed their joy at the sight of their grandfather, who took Bob in his arms to kiss him; while Nancy, with a smile of delight, pressed her brother’s hand, and assured him of the pleasure she felt that she should have his company a few days longer.

Bob was so impatient, in the mean time, to shew his dress, that setting both his feet against his grandfather’s stomach, he very nearly pushed himself backwards. “Look, Sir,” said he, “Pray look at my buttons! I shall soon be a man now. I was four years old yesterday; and see, I have got a pocket to my waistcoat; and this is my new handkerchief.” “Well,” said the old gentleman, “I will see them all presently, but let me set you down first; you had very near tumbled us both on the grass; and you are very heavy, I can tell you, in your new cloaths.” “I dare say I am,” returned Bob. “To be sure, Sir, I am too big to be lifted now I am in breeches; and besides, I have got money in my pocket; so it is no wonder I am heavy, for Mr. Goodwill the clergyman gave me six-pence yesterday afternoon, because, he said, I was such a good boy, that he was sure I should take care and spend it properly.—And see what a nice one it is, Sir!” Mr. Graves took it in his hand, and admiring it greatly, gave it to little Bob, who turned it about with much pride and pleasure as he walked along, till it unfortunately dropped down upon the grass, and was lost from his sight. “O stop! stop!” said he in a hurry, “my six-pence! my own dear new six-pence! what shall I do?” and immediately fell upon his hands and knees in search of his treasure. William did the same, and Nancy stooped forward to assist them; while their grandfather pushed about the grass with his stick, in hopes by that mean to discover it. Their endeavours, for a long time, were in vain, and Bob’s impatience became so great, that he burst into tears.

“Do not cry, my love,” said his sister, “I have got a six-pence which my papa gave me last Thursday when I finished his shirts, and you shall have that.” “But it is bent and ugly,” replied he: “It is not a new one: I do not like it: It is an ugly one.—O my pretty six-pence! what shall I do for it?” “Not be a naughty boy! I hope, Robert,” said Mr. Graves: “you told me just now, you were almost a man; but this behaviour, and these tears, look like a baby. I think Nancy is very kind to you; and I am ashamed to see you make such a return to her good-nature. However there is your six-pence,” continued he, putting his stick close to it. Bob jumped at it, and picking it up, kissed it most heartily, saying, “I am glad you are found: I will put you in my pocket, and never take you out again when I am walking.” They soon reached the house; and found Mr. and Mrs. Sedley waiting tea for them: to whom Mr. Graves gave an account of their walk. During their conversation two gentlemen who were riding by stopped their horses, and looked up at the house. Mr. Sedley got up, and walking to the window with his cup lifted to his mouth, and the saucer in his left hand, “I wonder what those gentlemen are looking for,” said he. “They seem to have mistook their way.” “O no! Papa,” replied Bob, “I dare say they only stand still to look at my new cloaths. They are surprised I suppose to see me in breeches.” “Upon my word, child,” said his father, “you think yourself now of prodigious consequence; but it is very silly and unlike the man you wish us to think you, to talk so much of your dress.——Your brother’s behaviour,” added he, turning to Miss Sedley, “puts me in mind of the little girl we met one day at Mr. Wilmot’s. Do not you remember her, Nancy? I think she was called Miss Gaudery: with her red silk slip, and fine gold watch. She looked so stiff as if afraid to stir. She would not walk in the garden for fear it should spoil her shoes; nor sit close to her companions, that she might not tumble her cuffs; nor would she eat any strawberries, because if one happened to drop, it would stain her apron. In short, all her attention was so evidently fixed upon her fine cloaths, that she incurred the contempt of the company; who all agreed it was much to be lamented, that her mind should be neglected for the sake of adorning her person. I know that dress is a very favorite subject with girls. And what pretty thing have you got? says one; and let me see your new cap, says another, when you have play-fellows come to see you. Is not that true, Nancy? And then you pull out your band-boxes; and this is my cloak; and this is my furbelowed apron; and here is my flounced petticoat; and that is my feathered bonnet; and in this drawer I put my shawl.—Tell me, Nancy, is not that the way you entertain and are entertained by your visitors?” “Those with whom I am intimate,” replied Miss Sedley blushing, “I sometimes shew my new cloaths to; but I do not wear half of those things you have named: it would look strange indeed to see a little girl in a furbelowed apron; at least, I am sure we should not call it by that name. But pray, Sir, inform me whether you think there is any thing wrong in this practice, and I will not do it for the future?” “I do not mean, my dear,” returned her father, “to blame that good-nature which would engage you to please your companions with the sight of a new acquisition; but to warn you from the danger of a vain temper, which is proud of fancied finery, and imagines its worth to consist in the smartness of dress rather than in real goodness. And I address myself to you upon this subject; because I think, that in general, girls are apt to shew a greater tendency to this failing than boys: but I hope my Nancy has too much good sense to be proud of any thing which reflects no honor upon herself, but as she behaves properly, and makes a right use of the advantage of fortune. The pleasure which Bob has expressed in his new coat, has not arisen from its being finer than his other cloaths, but because he looks upon himself as so much more like a man than he was before; but it is a certain proof from his speaking so much about them, that it is a new thing to him; otherwise he would have thought no more of the circumstance than does your brother William. So when a girl is dressed out to make a visit, and takes particular notice of her ruffles, or her frock, or any other part of her dress, you may almost always be sure she is not accustomed to it. You do not look at those shoes, nor think of that cap, because you usually wear them; and you should endeavour to be as easy in your behaviour in your best as in your common garb; otherwise you appear stiff and ungraceful, and will lose every advantage which your dress is designed to produce. But above all, my girl, remember, that good-nature, affability, and sweetness of manners, is the charm to render you agreeable; and will always have the power of pleasing, independent of outward decorations.” “I hope,” said Mrs. Sedley, “that our Nancy’s good sense will secure her from an error which is the strongest mark of an uninformed mind. She has just favored me with the sight of a little poetic piece, which was occasioned by the behaviour of the child you have mentioned; and as you are so well acquainted with the author, I dare say she will oblige you with the perusal. Mr. Sedley expressed his wishes to that purpose, and his daughter immediately fetched them down, and presented them to her father, who read as follows:

“Thank you, my dear,” said Mr. Sedley, when she had concluded. “These lines, I see, are the production of Dick Wilmot, as he has signed them. You must know Sir,” added he, addressing Mr. Graves, “that our young friend discovers a propensity to the Muses, and often employs his leisure in the composition of such little pieces. But he has made two long a parenthesis at the beginning, which is only excusable from the laudable motive of praising a sister, who is one of the most accomplished and best tempered girls I am acquainted with. The design of a parenthesis is only to include a short sentence in a long one, and therefore should not be too long itself, as the sense of the author ought to be complete without it. But when it is extended to too great a length, we forget the foregoing passage, and the continuation of the subject appears awkward and perplexing.” “But if the sense is as good without, then what is its use?” said Miss Sedley. “It is sometimes by way of explanation, my dear,” replied he, taking up a book from the table: “as thus, Alexander reaped great advantage from the fine taste with which his master (than whom no man possessed greater talents for the education of youth) had inspired him with from his infancy.” “Now perhaps the reader might not be acquainted with the character of Alexander’s master; and this commendation of him will inform him, that he was a man of abilities, and therefore better qualified for his employment; and yet the sense would have been perfect without this addition. But it sometimes is likewise used as an exception. Suppose I was to say, you shall all go to Windsor to-morrow (except little Bob) to see the castle and the royal family.”—“O! but pray do not leave me at home,” said Robert, starting up from the ground, where he had been sitting spinning his six-pence on the carpet. “Pray, Sir, take me with you, and I will shew you some verses as well as my sister.” “Will you?” replied Mr. Sedley; “and pray where did you get them? but I am not going to Windsor: I was only teaching Nancy the use of a parenthesis.” “Was that all?” cried Bob in a tone of disappointment. “But you shall see the poetry however. I have it in my pocket,” with an emphasis he pronounced the word. “My brother gave it to me yesterday. They were inscribed,”

The next morning was as fine as the preceding one; and William and his sister rose in high spirits with the idea of spending the day together.

When the family assembled to breakfast, Mr. Graves proposed to take them to dine with a friend of his at Windsor, but without excepting little Bob, who begged to be of the party. After a very pleasant ride they arrived at Mr. Rich’s, who received them with great affability and politeness. They found there several play-fellows, as Mr. Rich had a son and daughter; and there were two young ladies and a young gentleman, who had been likewise invited to dine with them. The name of the eldest was Miss Lofty: the other Miss Snap; and the boy was called Master Tradewell.

As it was early when they arrived, Mr. Sedley, Mrs. Rich, and the young folk, took a walk to see the castle, with which they were all highly entertained. On their return they met with a pretty girl, who was running along with a basket of apples, and who stumbling over a loose stone in her way, fell down with great violence on the pavement. William and his sister immediately hastened to her assistance, and very tenderly enquired whether she was hurt; at the same time assisted her to gather up the fruit, which she seemed much concerned about, as the pippins had rolled to a great distance. “How far were you going, Fanny,” said Mrs. Rich. “Don’t be frightened, my child; your apples are not the worse, and your mother will not be angry.” “They were for you, Ma’am,” replied she, curtesying and weeping, “and I was charged to make haste; but I am sure I could not help falling.” “To be sure you could not,” returned the lady; “and as you are a good girl, you may stay and dine at our house if you please.” Fanny thanked her, and promised to ask her mother’s leave so to do. Mrs. Rich then informed her company, that the child they had seen was daughter to a servant of theirs, who had married a gardener, and whose good behaviour recommended her so much, that she frequently came to play with her children.

In the afternoon the young party retired to amuse themselves in the garden; and Miss Rich asked them if it would be agreeable for Fanny Mopwell to be with them? William said, “by all means;” and Nancy was quite pleased with the proposal: but Miss Lofty bridled up her head, and said, “she had never been used to play with such creatures:” and Master Tradewell said, “he thought they were better without her; for a merchant’s son was rather above a girl of that sort.”

Tom Rich, who had loved Fanny from her infancy, and whose mother had been his nurse, was not a little offended at the scorn which they expressed for his favorite, and very angrily told Miss Lofty, “that if she was poor, she was good-natured, and would not refuse to oblige any body.” William also joined heartily in her favour; for he was of such a gentle disposition, that he always wished to promote the happiness of every one he saw; and Nancy seconded him with great ardor. Upon this mighty question, a warm debate ensued. Miss Snap said, “she did not care for the girl, but she had no patience to have her play so interrupted.” Charlotte Rich, who was a school-fellow of Miss Lofty’s, began to be ashamed of having asked her to take notice of such an humble companion; and though she was in her heart very fond of little Fanny, yet she felt her pride hurt at having shewn her such a degree of regard. So forcibly does a bad example often operate upon a mind which would be otherwise not ungenerous.

During the dispute, the innocent cause of it happened to pass by; and Fanny, with a modest curtesy, asked Miss Rich how she did? To which question the foolish girl, for the reason above-mentioned, would not condescend to give her an answer. As she was a child of great sensibility, she was a little distressed by the contempt which Charlotte affected. She knew too well the duties of her station to offer to put herself upon an equality with the other young ladies; but as she was always accustomed to be treated by Miss Rich with the freedom of an equal, she felt her contempt as a hardship to which she had not been used. She hung down her head, and was walking silently away, when Tom took hold of her gown, and enquired whither she was going? desiring her to stay with him and his friend William, adding, “that Miss Sedley and Bob should be of their party; and they would leave the proud boarding-school ladies, since that was their title, to keep company with the merchant’s son.”

Miss Lofty, who was daughter of a nobleman, replied, “that a merchant’s son was no better than a tradesman; and she was not over fond of your city gentry.” This speech equally offended Master Tradewell and Miss Snap; who, rouzed at the indignity offered to her rank, declared, “she always heard, that a gentleman of fortune was as good as a Lord; and her father, who was an Alderman, was known, though a grocer, to be worth thousands and thousands of pounds, and therefore she did not understand such treatment.” In short, the disagreement ran so high, that Miss Snap could not be persuaded to play at all; and when the rest of the disputants had agreed to make up matters, she would accept of no proposal, nor join in any diversion which they offered to her choice. During the latter part of the engagement, Master Sedleys, with their sister and Tom, had accompanied Fanny to an arbour at some distance, where they quietly sat down to play. Her good-nature inclined her always to give way to her companions; and she had been taught to do whatever her superiors desired (if it was not wrong) so that they found her a most agreeable and entertaining girl, and rejoiced that they had admitted her to be of their party. Among the rest of their amusements, it was proposed that they should each tell a story for the entertainment of the rest; and as none of the others could immediately recollect one, Fanny was desired to begin, which she very readily did in the following manner, out of a little book which she had in her pocket.

“John Active was a very good sort of man, and was beloved by his neighbours. He was kind to every body; and would always help those who were in distress. As he had a good trade (though it was a laborious one) he got a pretty fortune; and he did not mind the fatigue, for the sake of providing for his family. His wife too was a worthy woman, and always took care to have things ready against he came home, received him with good-humour, and thanked him for the trouble he took in getting the money to keep her and her children. They had three daughters; whose names were Nanny, Susan, and Kate; and she taught them to read and work; and when they were gone to-bed, would sit up to mend their cloaths, and do what was necessary for them. While they were young, this family all lived extremely comfortable. The parents were contented and thankful for their condition; and the children were as happy as it was in their power to make them. But when they grew older, and ought to have known better, the two eldest became perverse and disobedient. They would not mind what they were taught; and only grumbled and found fault if they were set to work. In short, they became so obstinate, that they at all times did the contrary to what their parents desired: Susan one day in jumping from the top of a gate, which she had often been forbid to do, broke her leg, an accident that confined her a great while, and cost her father a vast deal of money for surgeons; and her mother in lifting her about, got a hurt in her back, which never could be cured, and occasioned her to be lame all the rest of her life. Any body would have thought that such an accident might have taught the naughty girl to have been more obedient for the future; but she was unmoved by it; and added to the trouble of nursing her, by being cross and dissatisfied; and poor Mrs. Active would often shed tears at the unkind speeches which she returned for her care and indulgence. Nor did Nancy afford them any greater comfort. She would never assist in those things of which she was capable: but was mighty eager to do what was out of her power.

“One day when her sister was better, her mother desired them both to run the seams of a bed curtain, which she was making; and begged them to make haste, as she wanted to finish it before night.” They both looked sullen at her request. Nancy said, “it was not her business; and her father might sleep without curtains:” and Susan replied, “that though her leg was mended she would not do all the drudgery indeed.” While little Kate, who was much younger, threaded a needle, and began to take one of them into her lap, though it was so large she could hardly manage it. Mrs. Active told them to consider their father had a bad cold; and as it was a very severe frost, and a windy night, it would certainly make him worse. So after she had insisted upon it, they snatched up the work, and pulled out their needles with such passion and ill-humour as to break the thread at every stitch. Susan, who had got a book to amuse her, and who sat with her back to her mother, put it into her lap, and kept reading the whole time, without paying any regard to what she said; and long before the usual hour of going to-bed, both sisters pretended they were so sleepy they could not keep awake, left their work unfinished, put on their night caps, and went away.

“As Susan’s book was very entertaining, they sat up in their own room to finish reading it; but thinking they heard Mrs. Active upon the stairs, they hastily popped the candle into the closet, and with their cloaths on jumped into bed. As they heedlessly put it upon an under shelf, it burnt a hole through the one which was over it, where catching to some linen, it soon set the closet in a blaze. This did not happen for some hours after they had left it, they having laid still for fear of being found but, and not thinking of the danger, fell asleep, while the flames burnt through to Mr. Active’s room, which was adjoining to theirs; and it was with the greatest difficulty that they were saved, he having but just time to rush in at the hazard of his own life, and carry them down stairs in his arms. But the house for want of water, as it was in a country place, was entirely consumed; nor did they save any thing, not even so much as cloaths to cover them.”

When Fanny had read thus far, her audience were obliged to seperate upon a summons to tea. They were all extremely sorry, as they wished to hear a conclusion to her story; and William begged her to lend him the book that he might finish it at home. This proposal Fanny did not much approve, but at length, upon a promise of his returning it by Master Rich before he went to school, she entrusted it to his care, charging him to keep it clean, and not take the paper off the cover.

In their way home, the young folk entertained Mr. Graves with an account of their days amusement, and bestowed great praise on Fanny’s good-nature, at the same time that they blamed the haughty manners of Miss Lofty and her companions. “Your observations, my dear children,” replied their grandfather, “give me the highest pleasure, as there is nothing more truly contemptable than that pride which arises from the possession of wealth and finery. The poor are a more useful set of people than the rich; since to their industry we must owe all those distinctions that bestow the conveniences and luxuries of life. And though the difference of station was appointed for the wisest ends; yet, it is our duty to behave with kindness to our inferiors, and not subject them to unnecessary mortifications. A prudent person will always endeavour to keep such company as may suit his rank, because it is an error to associate only with those beneath us, as we cannot learn from them such qualifications which are essential to be known; but a good mind will at all times pay a tender regard to the feelings of those in poverty and distress, because it is an act of cruelty and oppression to insult any who are in circumstances less happy than ourselves. Instead, therefore, of being proud on account of your family and fortune, you should be thankful to Providence that you will have it in your power to assist others; and remember, that the higher your rank, and the greater share of wealth you may possess, so much the more it is necessary to set a good example; as God will expect more from you in consequence of such advantages, than from those who by having fewer opportunities of instruction, are not so well acquainted with their duty. Every incident, my dears, may afford you some useful lesson, if you accustom yourselves to reflect seriously; and this afternoon has taught you by experience, that the benefit of a good education, the finery of dress, and the distinction of noble connections, are altogether insufficient to engage your love or respect; while the superior charms of good-nature and good sense have in the humble Fanny found means to win your regard. Remember then, for the future to cultivate in yourselves the internal graces of a generous disposition; and let the pride and folly of Miss Lofty and Master Tradewell, be a warning to you to shun their errors. Every degree of grandeur and ostentation can be but comparative. If you despise the poverty of Fanny, or the inferior fortune of your acquaintance Sam Ivy; Sir Thomas Young, or your school-fellow Lord Newson, may look down upon you with equal contempt; because they have already each a title to boast, and have larger estates to expect than yourself: and as you would dislike to be treated with disdain by them, remember others have equal sensibility: and always judge by your own feelings, what is the course of action you should pursue; since, to do as we would be done by, is a rule of the greatest importance in life. Master Tradewell could but ill bear the scorn with which Miss Lofty treated a mercantile employment, though he had joined in her haughty behaviour to Fanny Mopwell. And those who are most ready to give offence to others, can in general the least submit to such insolence themselves; because, knowing their own want of more valuable endowments, and thinking such a vain superiority of the highest consequence, they are mortified in proportion to their pride, and suffer the just punishment of their arrogance in the folly which causes their distress.” William thanked his grandfather for his good advice, to which they had all listened with great attention; and then retired to bed, with the satisfaction of having behaved well during the course of the day. As soon as he conveniently could the next morning, he went into his sister’s room, and taking Fanny’s book from his pocket, they both sat down in one chair, with his arm round her neck; and began to read the continuation of the story as follows:

“Mr. Active and his family were now left exposed to the greatest distress. One of his legs had been terribly burnt in getting his daughters down stairs; and the loss of their house and furniture it was out of their power ever to repair. Several of the neighbours were so kind as to give them a few cloaths for the present; and the gentlemen of the parish, out of regard to his merit, made a subscription for him, and gave him some money for his immediate relief. With this assistance they took as cheap a lodging as they could procure; but were obliged to live very differently from their usual manner. The poor man, though he went out to work, could earn but little, his leg growing worse for want of proper assistance; and the fright of the fire had had such an effect on his wife, that she never was well after. In this state of poverty the money which had been given them was soon spent; and though many persons had pitied them at the time, yet their sufferings were now forgot, and nobody thought any more about them. Nanny and Susan, though their undutiful behaviour had been the cause of all the misfortunes which they suffered, still continued to be ill-tempered and untractable. They were discontented with their situation, and grumbled at the hardship to which they were reduced; and though their mother had got some work to employ them, yet they were so idle that they neglected to do it, notwithstanding they were starving for want. Poor Kate, indeed, did what she could; and though she was but young, proved of great assistance to her mother. “I will do all I am able,” she would say, “and do not grieve, for in time we shall have more money I hope.” And when she saw there was but little for dinner, she would not eat what she wanted, in order to leave it for her parents. Sometimes she would talk to her sisters, and advise them to behave better. “I am sure,” she has said, “we owe a great deal to our father and mother for their care; and as they have worked hard for us, it is but reasonable that we in our turn should try to support them.” The two elder sisters were at length provided for, by getting into place, and going to service. Nanny was taken by a grocer’s wife to nurse a young child and go of her errands, and whatever else she was capable of doing: and Susan went to a farmers in the neighbourhood as an assistant in the family. It fell to her lot to carry milk every morning to a gentleman who lived near the place where her sister was settled; and she used frequently to meet her there, and stay and talk to her a little. They pursued this custom for some time without any bad intention; but one day, as the place where they stood happened to be close to a pastry-cook’s shop, they were tempted by the sight of some hot buns to go in and buy one between them. They found the taste so delicious, that they would gladly have eaten more; but considering the cost would be what they could not well afford, they parted for that time, with a mutual agreement to meet the next day at the same house, and renew their treat.

“Nanny’s business would not permit her to be there so early as her sister, who after having waited at the door for some time, entered the shop by herself, and bought a penny custard, which she had just finished eating, when Susan arrived, and with much pleasure informed her, that a gentleman had given her a shilling for her trouble in waiting upon him during his stay at her Master’s; and she wanted to consult her in what manner she should lay it out. “Suppose,” added she, “I should carry it to my mother, it is the first money I have had, and she is in great distress?” “Why, yes,” replied Susan, “they do want money at home; and so after you have eaten one of these plum-cakes let us go: I would have bought one before had I been able to pay for it.” “Well! but,” returned Nanny, “then I must change the shilling, and that will be a pity: to carry only eleven-pence will not look half so well, and we had better go without our cakes: we have both had a good dinner, and perhaps they have not fared so well: I think it would be kinder to let them have it.” So saying, she was going to leave the shop, when the pastry-cook’s boy passed by her with a tray full of hot cheesecakes. They smelt so delicious, that Nanny wished very much to taste them; and her sister joining in the same inclination, added, “we shall often have a shilling given us now we are in service: it is but a trifle! what would a shilling buy? My mother will not expect it; and therefore will not be hurt, or vexed about it: come, come, do not stand thinking any longer.” “To be sure they are very nice,” said Nanny, and took up one in her hand.—It broke!—What was to be done? It must be paid for; and when the shilling was once changed, she argued that it would look unhandsome to carry such a trifle to her parents.—Weak, silly girls! They spent the whole of it before they left the shop.

“Kate, in the mean time, continued with her parents, whose misfortunes encreased every day. Mr. Active fell from a ladder and broke one of his arms, and was by this accident reduced to a starving condition. His wife was attacked by a violent fever, of which she would not inform her daughters, for fear they should take the infection. These distresses in a few weeks, as they were both unable to work, reduced them to the most wretched state of poverty; and on the day that their two daughters were feasting, as has been related, they were almost expiring with hunger. Poor Kate, with weeping eyes, beheld them both. She had nothing to give them, and had exhausted her strength in nursing and attending them. Her mother lay on her wretched bed, and her melancholy father with his right arm in a sling sat beside her. “I will get them something!” said Kate to herself. Her father told her it was dinner time. “Bring what there is, my good child, for your mother.” She went to their little cupboard.—Alas, it was empty! Not a crumb remained! She had wiped it clean in the morning, and those scraps had been her only breakfast. “Is there nothing, my child?” added he, and he looked at his wife, stroaked his left hand across his eyes, but not quick enough to prevent the tears which dropped upon the sling that supported his right. “I will fetch something,” said Kate; and was hastening to the door. “Alas!” replied he, sobbing with distress, “my last farthing was spent yesterday.” She went out, however. “I will beg,” said she to herself, but I will procure them something.” She stood in the street a few moments, not knowing what to do. At last she ran as fast as her weakness would permit (for she was beginning to be ill with the same fever which had attacked her mother.) She ran till she reached the grocer’s. She enquired for her sister, but she was not at home. She begged them to give her a bit of bread; but the men in the shop who did not know her, accused her with being a beggar and a thief; and would not believe that Nanny was her relation. They threatened to send her to the house of correction, and turned her disgracefully out of doors.

Poor Kate wept most bitterly at this treatment. She was very timid and had not courage to reply, but wandered back again in deeper affliction than before. As she drew near home, she felt rather sick; and as she had scarcely eaten any thing for several days, she much wished for something to appease her hunger. A baker’s shop was at hand, and she determined to go in and beg them to give her a roll. But she saw nobody to apply to. She called several times, but no one answered. Loaves of bread, of all sizes, stood on the counter before her. “Shall I take one?” said she: “I am quite unobserved.” “But is it right?” said she again to herself. “Shall I do a wrong thing only because I am not seen?”—She walked away. “Shall I go back,” once more she added, “to my poor father and mother, and have nothing for them?”—She sat down upon the threshold and wept. “It is better to starve,” at length she exclaimed, “it is better to starve than be wicked!” and she walked away. A gentleman was riding by in a chaise, and the wind blew off his hat. She ran, picked it up, and gave it to him; and he tossed her a half-penny for her trouble. She took it up with gratitude; and as she ran back to the bakers, she repeated aloud to herself, “It is better to be honest than to steal.” The owner of the shop was now returned. She told her distressful tale, and he gave her a stale penny loaf for her money. With what joy did the poor girl return to her parents.—“Was she not happier than if she had eaten an hundred cheesecakes?—In the afternoon Nanny had leave to visit her mother. She blushed when she saw them, and recollected how she had spent her shilling.”—

So far went the story, when William, to his great disappointment, perceived he had left the rest behind him. The cover of the little book was torn, and the leaves were fastened together with a pin, which had dropped out; and Fanny in giving it him when they were called to tea, had, without knowing it, kept back the rest.

He communicated the accident to his grandfather; and gave him an account of what he had been reading; and concluded with hoping, that Nanny and Susan would in the end meet with the punishment which their neglect of their parents deserved; that he should rejoice to hear they were starved for their barbarity. “You see, my dear,” returned Mr. Graves, “that the appearance of ingratitude is so odious, that it fills you with abhorrence only to read an imperfect account of it, and yet I doubt whether you who are so warm in your detestation of the crime, are not sometimes tempted to commit it.” “What I?” said William rather warmly, “I disobey my parents, and forget them in their distress! If I had but a mouthful of bread they should have it between them; and I am sure I always do as they desire me.” “You are a good boy,” replied the old gentleman; “but you have never yet been put to such a trial. Few persons know themselves, or are sensible how they should act in situations which they have not experienced. The only way you can prove your affection to your friends, is by rendering yourself worthy their regard. Only remember, that to do a wrong thing will give them more uneasiness than you can imagine; and that their concern for your welfare is so great, it would be the heaviest affliction they could experience to have you behave improperly; and, therefore, to merit their confidence, you must act with the same attention to their commands when they are absent as when they are present to observe you.”

William was vexed at his grandfather’s observation, and told him, “it seemed to imply a doubt of his conduct,” Mr. Graves commended him tenderly; but said, “he had observed, that he was often severe in his judgment; and when he saw a fault in others, or read of any blameable character, he was apt to condemn it without any regard to that mercy which was a most amiable attribute, and peculiarly necessary in creatures, who were every moment in danger of falling themselves. Young persons,” continued he, “are apt to look upon every crime of which they have not been guilty as impossible for them to commit: but that confidence in their own strength is sometimes a most dangerous snare to them in future life. I will give you an instance of this sort which fell under my own observation. When I first went ’prentice, there was a young man about sixteen, with whom I had been always intimate, and who was bound about the same time to an uncle who lived next door to my master’s. This circumstance was a great addition to our happiness, and the more I saw of him the more I had reason to esteem him. But there was one thing I wished had been otherwise in his disposition. His principles were so rigid, that I was sometimes afraid to tell him of any inadvertence I had been guilty of, though he was about my own age; for he declared such an abhorrence of every thing that was mean or deceitful, as to confess, if one of his friends should do a dishonorable action, he would cast him off for ever.—But the best hearts may be tempted to evil before they are aware, if they depend so much upon themselves as to be off their guard. He had leave one evening to visit an acquaintance, and upon his arrival found that the family were engaged to go to the play. They gave him an invitation to accompany them, which for some time he declined, thinking it not quite right to do this without his uncle’s knowledge. At length, however, as it was an entertainment which (as he had been but a short time in London) he had never seen, he determined to accept their offer. He felt a secret uneasiness upon his mind, as he thought his conduct not strictly right, and had great reason to suppose the proposal would by no means have met with his uncle’s approbation. His regret was however forgotten during the representation; and he would have been quite happy had his consent been obtained. The time however, went faster than he imagined, and when he returned home it was eleven o’clock. He had unfortunately broken his watch, and his companions assuring him it was early, he sat down with them to supper. The clock at length struck twelve; and the hours had passed so agreeably, that he thought it had been but eleven. He rose immediately, and hastened home, afraid of his uncle’s displeasure, and angry with himself for a conduct which his conscience disapproved.

“As he was running hastily along, full of uneasiness for the reception he might meet with, his foot slipped, and down he fell against a post. He was slightly bruised, and cut his face by the accident; but the thought immediately occurred to him to make that an excuse for his stay; and as he had mistaken a street which led him farther from home, for one which he designed to have taken; without any further reflection, he related a plausible tale to his uncle of his having lost his way; and as he had never before told an untruth, the account was believed by the old gentleman.—So far his falsity had escaped detection. He retired to-bed; but not to sleep; that comfort he could not obtain: his conscience represented the wickedness of which he had been guilty, and he could think of nothing but the crime which for the first time he had committed. In the morning he rose with a heavy heart; for cheerfulness is only the companion of virtue. He had too much false pride to confess his folly; and the questions which his uncle put to him, obliged him to confirm one lie by the addition of many more.—So easily, my dear boy, do we sink from one wickedness to the commission of another; and so difficult is it to regain the right path, when once we have wandered from it.—He passed a most wretched morning, occupied with reflections upon his conduct, and entered the parlour upon a summons to dinner with a mind penetrated with remorse. But guess at his confusion, when the first object which he saw was the gentleman he had accompanied to the play, and who had called to return him his stick, which in the haste of his departure he had left behind. The explanation that followed, was such as to mortify him to the last degree. It not only exposed his deceit to his uncle, but to the rest of the company; and his character was so much injured by the discovery, that it was many years before he could entirely reinstate himself in their good opinion: and to this day he is cautious of making a positive declaration, or profession of what he will do, for fear he should be ensnared into evil.”—“It is in every one’s power,” said William, “to be good if they please; therefore, they are accountable certainly for their bad actions.” “Very true,” replied his grandfather, “but take care that you are never drawn to the commission of bad actions by the example or persuasions of others. And you should remember, that the end of all your studies is to make you better by the force of example. When you meet with vicious characters, let the detestation which you feel for their crimes be a warning to you to avoid a similar conduct; while on the other hand, every noble action should inspire you with emulation to imitate what you applaud. My hopes,” continued the good old gentleman, “are fixed upon you all; but in a particular manner my cares have been engaged for you, as I have had a nearer concern in your education; and I trust, my William, you will recompence my solicitude, by becoming a worthy example to your brother and sister; for really I think your misconduct would break my heart.”

William was generous, frank, and affectionate. He loved his grandfather most tenderly; and pressing his hand, promised his future conduct should be all he wished.—But alas! with all his good qualities, he was in some respects of too easy a disposition. He had not resolution to oppose what he knew to be wrong when his companions proposed it; and was frequently drawn into such errors through his weak compliance, as he had long occasion to lament. Good-nature is a great virtue; but young people should endeavour to distinguish between what is kind and what is weak. True goodness is always obliging to others, where it can be so without acting wrongly. But no politeness can excuse an ill action; and those who propose what is blameable, ought never to be complied with. We should then, with gentleness endeavour to shew them the impropriety of their behaviour; and if they are too obstinate to be convinced, leave them to their folly without partaking it with them.